


Rites and Rituals

by kathierif_fic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Time, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathierif_fic/pseuds/kathierif_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of the Five Armies is over, and Thorin should be crowned King under the Mountain - and then it is discovered that, by ancient Dwarven Laws, he is still considered a Child because he never went through the proper Rites and Rituals of Adulthood and therefore not eligible for the Throne. It's up to Dwalin now to right the wrongs and teach Thorin all about the joys of Dwarvish Adulthood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rites and Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> written for kink-bigbang 2015. 
> 
> Although this is an AU where nobody dies, there will be lasting injuries due to the Battle of the Five Armies.

Thorin opens his eyes and for a long, heartbreaking moment, he doesn't know where he is.

He can hear the roar of a fire somewhere close, and feel its warmth. He's resting on a soft mattress, furs and blankets are piled up around him, forming a kind of cocoon. Candles are burning near-by, offering more than enough light to see, but not enough to hurt his eyes.

He can feel it in his bones, he's surrounded by stone, safely tucked away into rock the way Dwarves have always been supposed to be. For a brief, delightful and yet terrifying moment, he doesn't remember any of his past, but then, it comes rushing back - the Quest for Erebor, the gold sickness, the Battle.

Azog.

The pain.

Erebor.

He finds himself wondering whether he is dead, whether these are the Halls of Mandos, and he can't help but feel a childish wonder and delight that they allowed him here, that they didn't refuse him entry based on the terrible things he's done in his lifetime.

He set out to prove that he was not his grandfather, and in the end, he acted exactly like Thror did, by valuing gold and the Arkenstone higher than the lives of those closest to him.

The thought pains him, and he tries to avert his eyes - from whom, he does not know, but he cannot fight the urge. He shifts his eyes to the side, and the breath catches in his throat when he sees Dwalin standing guard over his bed, dressed in various pieces of armor, Grasper and Keeper in his strong, capable hands.

There is a wild and grim look in Dwalin's eyes, a new scar across his cheek - Thorin knows his old friend well enough to recognize the changes immediately. 

"Am I dead?" he murmurs, his voice rusty and croaking like an old oak in a storm.

Dwalin's brow furrows.

"No," he simply says, and Thorin blinks. Dwalin's voice cracks, as well, as if he is close to tears, and for a long moment, Thorin wonders about that. But then, his thoughts return to Dwalin's presence by his bedside.

If he is not dead, and Dwalin is armed, it means that danger must lurk close-by. 

Instinct has him try to sit up, to reach for weapons and clothes that should be next to him and within reach, but his questing fingers can't find anything, neither sword nor knife, only a bowl and a cup and a roll of bandages, and his body explodes in pain so breathtakingly strong that his vision swims and greys.

The blood pulses loudly in his ears, and he feels wave upon wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. He grits his teeth and forces his legs over the edge of the mattress nonetheless, and another sharp spike of pain runs from his foot to his chest and back, stealing his breath and making tears form in his eyes.

His vision blurs even more, his breath comes in harsh pants, and only belatedly does he realize that Dwalin is gripping his shoulder tightly, stopping him from moving further.

"Stop," Dwalin is pleading, and Thorin surrenders to his old friend and the pain and allows Dwalin to push him back into the plush pillows while the ringing in his ears and the thunder of his heartbeat recedes enough for him to make out more sounds: running footsteps, Oin ordering someone around in loud, harsh Khuzdul, and Dwalin answering to someone standing behind him, out of Thorin's sight.

"Thorin!" 

Thorin blinks - he must've closed his eyes, for it is Oin now who is leaning over him, staring into his eyes and running quick, careful hands down his chest, checking the bandages and making sure Thorin hasn't brought further harm to himself.

"What happened?" Thorin manages to ask. His mouth and throat are dry, as if he's tried to swallow cotton and it got stuck halfway down.

Oin tucks the blanket around him and grabs the cup from where it has fallen when Thorin's flailing hand has pushed it off its stand. 

"How much of the battle do you remember?" he asks while deftly grinding herbs into a fine powder and stirring them into the cup.

Thorin's eyes sink closed again, allowing him to see the pictures in his mind more clearly.

"Did we win?" he asks after a long moment.

"Aye," Oin hums and pushes one strong hand under Thorin's head, to lift him up slightly and allow him small sips of water infused with herbs. It lets Thorin take a brief look at the length of his own body and the bandages covering his entire chest.

"I...I slayed Azog,“ he says slowly once Oin tips the cup away from his lips again.

"Aye," Oin says again and offers him the cup again.

"The Company?" Thorin asks once the worst of his thirst is slaked. He doesn't dare asking after his sister-sons; his own eyes bore witness of Fíli dying at Azog's hand, and he has little doubt Kíli followed his brother, trying to avenge him and not stopping until the two were united once more. The thought fills him with numb desperation that still dulls next to the bodily pain he experiences.

Oin steps to the foot of the bed and brushes the blankets back, revealing Thorin's bare feet. One of them is heavily wrapped, only the tips of his toes peeking out.

"Wriggle these for me," Oin orders and pokes at Thorin's big toe. Thorin does, and a fresh wave of agony arcs along his foot and up his leg.

"The Company is mostly fine," Oin belatedly answers once he covered Thorin's feet again. "Your injuries were among the worst of them all. That damn Orc ran you through with his sword - Mahal held his hammer in front of you; he narrowly missed your important organs." He grimaces. "Thranduil healed the worst of your injuries while you were still lying in your own blood on the battlefield."

Thorin grimaces, but he figures that he owes the Elvenking his life, and therefore he holds his tongue. 

A dark shadow passes over Oin's face. "Dain rules in your stead," he explains. "He is re-establishing the rules of old, and he made peace with the Elves and the Men of Dale by giving them part of the treasure. You will be expected to honor the agreement, I reckon, but Balin will tell you more."

"So Balin and Dwalin live," Thorin notes. He never doubted their ability to survive even the most dangerous of battles; but even great warriors like them can be beaten by fate. 

"All the members of the Company live," Dwalin notes. He's been pushed away by Oin, but not far, Thorin sees. He's hovering close to the fireplace now, his arms crossed over his chest, his axes put away for now. He does not look at Thorin's face, his eyes focusing somewhere high above Thorin's head.

"Kíli?" Thorin asks. His throat feels tight and dry again, a tiny spark of hope blossoming in his chest, next to the terrible hurt of Azog running him through and flesh and bone knitting itself back together.

"With his brother right now." Dwalin's eyes bore into his skull, and his voice grows scratchy again when he tells Thorin, "They both live, Thorin."

Thorin shakes his head. “I saw…” he whispers, but he cannot say the words.

“They live,” Dwalin simply repeats and reaches over, to grasp Thorin’s shoulder and to allow him to borrow some of his strength.

~~

He does not know what kind of herbs Oin mixed into his drink, but they take away his pain and let him sleep for hours on end, and when he wakes for the second time, he feels stronger already, less exhausted and knowing immediately where he is.

For a moment he thinks he's alone, but then, something moves silently in the shadows, and Bilbo steps close to offer him the cup, the water inside tepid and still tasting of herbs.

"I thought you long gone back to the Shire," he murmurs after a while, and Bilbo chuckles, a trembling, wet sound that makes Thorin reach out with one hand and wrap his fingers weakly around Bilbo's wrist.

"I wanted to," Bilbo admits. "But I couldn't, not without knowing..." he trails off, and Thorin does not ask.

"Anyways," Bilbo continues, a forced, false cheer in his words that grates in Thorin's ears, "it's good to see you up. Dwalin told us, of course, that you had talked to him, and I guess the lads were more than relieved to hear of the news."

Thorin allows Bilbo to prattle on, about the cleaning and repairing of Erebor and Dale, about the alliance between Men and Dwarves, and even about the Elves and their kindness. After a while, he starts to drift off again, aided by the soothing cadence of Bilbo's voice, his fingers still wrapped around Bilbo's wrist.

Bilbo does not try to remove his grip, not even once.

~~

His periods of awareness grow longer and he requires less rest in between them, and yet, it takes him a while to realize that there is at least one armed member of his Company near by at all times.

It is never his sister-sons, and he dares not asking after them. Dwalin told him they live, Thorin has the niggling fear that they are not telling him everything. But when he turns his words even in the general direction of them, his minders are quick to offer him herbal infusions to make him fall asleep again, or change the topic stubbornly.

At first, it confuses him. But he bears it with as much grace and tolerance as he can, just like the armed Dwarves close to his bed, even if his patience is threatening to wear out quickly. He will have news of his sister-sons, one way or another, as soon as he is strong enough to get up to look for them himself, may his guardians protest as they wish.

Their guarding of him still amuses him a little. Are they not inside the Mountain, protected from most harm threatening them?

And then Dain marches in one day, when Thorin has regained enough strength to sit up in his bed and hold a bowl of stew in his own hands without risking to bathe himself in it, and Bofur next to him stills and reaches for his mattock while giving the guards that follow Dain into the room a glare that would make a lesser Dwarf quake in his boots, and Thorin gets the feeling that something is not quite right and he missed it.

He spares a single heartbeat to regret his Company's desire to protect him from whatever they are hiding, and the lack of preparation, and then, Dain is upon him, the smile on his face real and the grip he has on Thorin's hand unforgiving.

"Cousin," Dain greets, his second hand coming up to grip the sleeve of Thorin's tunic. 

"Cousin," Thorin replies and raises his eyebrows. "I trust you're taking good care of my city."

Dain laughs, a booming sound that echoes around the otherwise silent chamber. There are so many people in here, Thorin thinks a little uncomfortably, and yet, it is silent like a grave. No armor clinks, no Dwarf dares to breathe loudly. 

Thorin shifts slightly. 

"Erebor is well on its way to return to former glory," Dain reports. "The front gates have been repaired, and with the help of the Men of Dale and the Elves of Mirkwood, we will survive the winter, all of us, even the Men."

Those are indeed good news to hear, and Thorin settles himself more comfortably against the pillows and listens to his cousin talk.

He does not pay attention to the passing of time when Dain finally comes to the reason for his visit, beyond the wish to see how his cousin fares. 

"Thorin," he says gravelly, "It has come to my attention that several members of your Company have not undergone the Rites and Rituals of Adulthood."

Thorin frowns and turns questioning eyes toward Bofur.

Bofur squirms, and Thorin can see his wish to keep Thorin in the dark about the politics of Erebor for a while longer grapple with the clear need to say something and jump to someone's defense.

"The scribe, Ori," Dain explains when it becomes obvious that Bofur won't answer Thorin. "He did good work, but how can he serve at court if he is, by the ancient laws of Durin himself, still considered a child?"

Thorin has no answer. He remembers this law, but adhering to it while they were homeless and wandering would have been foolish. They needed every helping hand they could get, and as soon as Dwarflings were old enough to step up and fulfill part of the duties, they were expected to do so. He hasn't thought about those Rites for a long time.

"My council and I, as current regent of Erebor," Dain says, his grip on Thorin's wrist tightening slightly, "have tasked ourselves with restoring the order of old, including the laws which allowed Erebor to prosper. We trust that this is for the best of the Kingdom, Thorin, and I am certain you feel the same."

"What is it you are doing?" he asks when Dain tugs at his sleeve again, exposing his forearm to view.

"When the Council saw proof that Ori is, indeed, still a child who has not undergone the Rites, they came to me, disturbed by the fact that the great Thorin Oakenshield would be so foolish to take a child onto a dangerous quest, and it was decided to make sure there are no others within our armed ranks." Dain turns Thorin's arm slightly. "I will not lie to you, cousin, there were calls for punishment, for you have taken children into battle."

Thorin can feel his stomach sinking and clenching tight at Dain's words. He knows with sudden and absolute clarity where they are leading.

"We checked every single Dwarf for the marks," Dain continues. "A task made easier by the fact that Erebor is inhibited by warriors only at this point."

"Get to the point," Thorin interrupts him. "You did not find marks on more than one member of my Company."

"Indeed." Dain frowns. "The punishment for taking children into battle is severe, Thorin, and I was prepared to mete out a punishment according to it, when my healers informed me that you, yourself, bear no marks - no inkinks, no jewelry, no braids."

He lifts Thorin's arm once more - the spot where the inking of adulthood should be is bare, the skin pale and unadorned. 

"Thorin," Dain says, not unkindly, "Did you..."

He never gets to finish his question, and Thorin does not need to face the shame of answering it, in front of soldiers from the Iron Hills and members of his own Company, for there is a commotion at the door, and Oin marches in, Balin and Dwalin hot on his heels.

"What is the meaning of this?" Oin thunders, ear trumpet held at the ready to use as a weapon. "Who dares disturbing my patient?"

Dain straightens to his full height. "Your patient is a Child under my protection," he declares, loud enough for every Dwarf in the room to hear. "I am his closest adult relative present, and I have every right to be here and ask him questions!"

Thorin feels the blood rush to his face, making him blush furiously. Dain's words surely will be carried from soldier to soldier, from Dwarf to Dwarf until they are all aware that their leader, their proud King-to-be, is nothing more than a Child in front of their laws, not allowed to rule and not allowed to sign contracts without the supervision and permission of a relative who takes custodianship of him. The contracts with the Company are moot – he signed them all, they are all worthless before the eyes of the law. They gave him everything, he thinks, and they get nothing, because their contracts are barely worth the paper they have been written on.

He becomes aware of the fact that Dain must have picked his words and his audience on purpose, knowing well that, once a statement like this has been made before witnesses, it cannot be retracted so easily.

Balin steps forward. "Out!" he orders, his voice harsh and clipped. He glares at the soldiers who witness this moment, and they look at Dain for orders.

"Leave us," the Regent Under the Mountain says, and the room explodes in activity, Dwarves whispering as they shuffle out, until Thorin is left alone with Oin, Dain and Balin.

"Thorin," Dain says, his voice suddenly pleading. "Tell me that we missed it."

Thorin does not reply. He cannot, not without lying to his kin, and this is a step he is not willing to take. Not when he knows from the beginning that every lie will immediately be proven by the lack of markings, of ink and silver and mithril.  
Not when he knows all too well how easily, how quickly his kin can be taken from him, and when he swore to the Maker himself to be a better Uncle and Brother to them. A better Cousin, worthy of his kin’s respect.

"Mahal's beard," Oin snaps. "The lad needs his rest now. Out with you! This can wait!"

Dain looks as if he wants to disagree, but Oin glares at him fiercely enough and pokes him in the shoulder with the tip of his ear trumpet, and instead of arguing his case, Dain pulls Thorin's sleeve back down and lets go of his wrist. 

"We will speak of this further," he promises. "Later, when you are more rested."

Thorin still does not reply. He remains silent when Oin pushes Dain out of the room with bodily force, when Balin takes a seat next to his bed and starts fussing with the blankets.

After a while, Balin sighs. He does not ask questions, and Thorin is grateful for the silent support.

He accepts Oin's tonic without a fuss and allows himself to be drugged into a heavy sleep.

~~

A welcome sight greets Thorin when he blinks his eyes open again and rubs the grit out of them. A blond head is nestled against his shoulder, braids slightly untidy and crooked.

Fíli is pale, but his chest moves gently under the rough-spun tunic he wears. His eyelids are pale, almost translucent, and with some difficulty, Thorin wraps his arm around him and presses his forehead against Fíli's.

A rough sound alarms him to the presence of his other sister-son, sitting on the stool by Thorin's bedside and keeping watch. He is unarmed, and Thorin lets out a sound of anguish at the sight of the thick, red scar crossing Kíli's throat.

It looks like a severe injury, and he reaches for Kíli with his free hand, uncaring about his own pain, and tries to pull him close as well. 

Kíli is really unarmed, as the first glance already promised, and he comes willingly, his body warm and comfortable against Thorin's other side. 

He cannot speak and will not regain that ability for the remainder of his life, but his hands move through the air in quick îglishmek, telling Thorin of the aftermath of the battle, and of all the days he spent under the influence of Oin’s tonics and potions.

Fíli will never walk again, Kíli tells him in sharp gestures. The injuries he suffered at Azog's hands did not kill him - the line of Durin is not so easily broken, after all - but it severed his spine, and his body barely follows his mind's orders. The Elves did what they could, but there is no way Fíli will ever do more than sit unaided. He will rely on his brother for the rest of his life to get around, carried like a helpless, weak Dwarfling on Kíli's back.

It is how they got here, Kíli reveals, unwilling to wait any longer. They are both supposed to rest, to allow their bodies to heal as much as possible, but they both wished to see their uncle.

Thorin gathers them both as close as his own weak body allows and refuses to let go of them. He weeps silently for the future his sister-sons should have, for the things they will never experience, and he weeps because he is grateful they have not been taken from him. They are still here, and his heart clenches as if it wants to hold on to the love he feels for them with all its might.

It is not long until Fíli stirs awake, although his body does not move much. His fingertips twitch slightly, and he turns his head into the familiar warmth of Thorin's throat, nose nuzzling into Thorin's beard in a way he hasn't done since he was small enough to be picked up and carried around by Thorin.

Thorin knows that his sister-sons were among the best of his fighters, and he knows that they gave him everything they could spare and more. Their love and devotion to him stays unbroken, even with their bodies broken beyond repair.

"Did Balin tell you about Dain's enforcing of the laws?" Fíli murmurs. His voice is rough, but it is a most welcome sound to Thorin's ears.

"Cousin Dain himself was here to explain," he answers and shifts his grip slightly, to allow Fíli to see both him and Kíli. "Oin tossed him out."

Kíli manages an angry snort of sorts and a few quick, angry gestures. 

"Dain publically claimed guardianship over you, Uncle," Fíli says quietly. "He wanted Kíli, as well, but Kíli refused him."

Thorin turns his head to look back at his younger nephew, who emphatically tells him that he belongs to his brother, and not his cousin, if any of this is necessary at all.

Thorin finds himself agreeing. "Until your mother arrives, or you undergo the Rites," he muses, "your brother is the best keeper one can wish upon you."

Fíli smiles a little at that, and Thorin luxuriates in the feeling of holding his kin close in a way he has not done for too long.

~~

"I don't understand this at all," Bilbo admits, fingers twisted anxiously together in his lap. "How can Dain claim guardianship over you? How can you not be counted among the adults? Aren't you old enough to be your own...Dwarf, I guess?"

"Hobbits do things differently than us Dwarves, I gather," Thorin answers amusedly. He's allowed out of bed, and although he is not fully dressed and his hair is still in tangles, it lifts his mood extraordinarily to be sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. There is still a blanket spread across his knees, but it is not enough to ruin his mood.

"I suppose." Bilbo glances up at him and tilts his head. "When a Hobbit reaches a certain age, he - or she - is considered to be of age, allowed to sign contracts and marry and beget their own families."

"Dwarves undergo the Rites and Rituals of Adulthood," Thorin says, unwilling to reveal more. "They receive markings upon their completion. Inkings, jewelry. Beads, to clasp particular braids of adulthood."

"Huh." Bilbo reaches for the teapot and carefully pours both of them a cup. "Why did you never get those?"

Thorin frowns. "My teacher died in battle before he could guide me through the Rites, and afterwards, there was no time for this kind of ritual. Things needed to be taken care of," he reveals slowly.

Bilbo nods his understanding. "And now? What happens now?" he asks, all his focus seemingly on stirring sugar into his tea, and Thorin has no answer for him.

~~

Dwalin comes to find him when he takes his first, wobbling steps. His injured foot, impaled upon Azog's sword, is reluctant in taking his weight, and all he can manage is a slow shuffle like that of an old Man. Dwalin takes his spot next to Thorin, but he does not reach for him, does not try to carry his burden for him.

Thorin is absurdly grateful for that.

He completes a circuit around the room and sinks slowly into his armchair, injured foot coming to rest on a little footstool placed there for just that purpose by a kind soul, most likely Bilbo. 

Only then does he turn his focus on his old friend. With a small wave of his hand he invites him to sit down next to him, and Dwalin does. He perches awkwardly on the edge of the seat though, and Thorin finds himself frowning.

"What is it?" he finally demands, and Dwalin shifts his massive shoulders, discomfort and nervousness radiating from every pore and every hair of his beard.

"Was it Fundin?" he asks, words mumbled together, but once they are out and hanging between them, he finds the courage that made him one of the bravest Dwarves Thorin had the honor of knowing. "Who took you into battle without the Rituals?"

Thorin grimaces. He prefers not to think about the blasted situation, refuses to answer questions about his intended First, and when Dain urges him to speak of the situation, he falls mulishly silent, unwilling and unable to defend himself and his actions.

He doesn't answer Dwalin either and stares into the fire instead, hoping against odds that his old friend will cease to ask.

"All right," Dwalin finally says with a heavy sigh. "You don't want to talk. Let me tell you a tale, then." He coughs and shifts in his seat again, and Thorin knows that Balin is the talker of the family, that Dwalin despises having to open his mouth and pour out honeyed words. He would never make a diplomat, that one, but Thorin is sure that he could search all the lands of Middle-Earth and not find a better Master of Arms and Guardian.

A better friend.

"When we fled the Mountain," Dwalin says now, his voice rough, the memory still paining him, "Fundin told us - Balin and me - about a clasp he had made, to give to his latest student. He said that he had been chosen by the lad's grandfather and that it had been a high honor, one he intended to take seriously." He runs a hand over his beard before shaking his head. "Night before the battle, he tells us that he made a bead for his Charge, and that he planned on taking the lad in the aftermath of the glorious return to the Kingdom of Moria. A fitting present for a brave lad, he used to say." 

Thorin opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

"He told Balin..." Dwalin's voice breaks, and Thorin waits him out, waits for the words to come.

"Balin later told me Fundin had fallen, and that he had searched his pockets and never found the bead. We assumed he'd done his duty before his death, but there always was the possibility it had fallen out of his pocket during the battle and was lost in the muck."

Thorin wants to answer, but his throat has closed up. He remembers that day all too well, the stench of death and mud and pyres permeating the air that night. He had been all too aware, before the battle, that he had no place among the fighters, but his Grandfather had needed every able-bodied Dwarf. His heart had beat a sharp, anxious rhythm against his ribcage that night, always afraid of being found out, but nobody had approached him, and Fundin had promised him the Rites and Rituals right after the battle.  
And then, he’d had other things to keep his mind occupied.

He had been too busy to grieve for his fallen brother and grandfather then, too busy trying to keep the living alive and to safety. His father had been of little help, and the responsibility of keeping the Dwarves safe had fallen squarely to his shoulders.

"I went to Fundin's quarters this morning," Dwalin continues, his voice growing soft. "To see what was left."

He reaches out and places something on the table, and when he pulls his thick fingers back, Thorin's breath catches in his throat.

There, before him, lies an earclasp, intricately worked from fine, spun mithril and sapphires in a deep, royal blue. 

"Take it," Dwalin encourages him, and Thorin reaches out with a trembling hand to pick it up.

The inside, the side that would rest against its wearer's skin, is covered in tiny runes, almost indecipherable due to their size. 

There, he finds his name and the traditional well-wishes bestowed upon a Dwarf reaching their Adulthood.

"It was Fundin," he admits, his voice almost breaking. There is no need denying it any longer, not with the evidence glinting in his palm, and yet. It is a secret he bore for a long time, ever since his Grandfather had him called into the small Council Room and told him of his decision of giving his beloved Grandson to Fundin. 

Dwalin makes an anguished sound at the back of his throat, and slides off his chair to the ground. His knees hit the floor with force, and he reaches for Thorin's wrists, wrapping his fingers around them and holding on.

"Why didn't you say ever something," he groans, his head bent low and his forehead resting against Thorin's knees. "Why didn't you tell us, Balin or me, and let us do our father's duty."

Now it's Thorin who fails to keep his emotions under control.

"There were so many other things to worry about," he croaks. "So many lost Dwarves, Dwalin. How could I not do what I did then, and do whatever I could to guide the survivors to safety?"

"And after, why didn't you tell us after?" Thorin feels Dwalin's grip tighten, and he knows that Dwalin is figuring it out by himself. The question is just to reassure him he put the puzzle pieces together correctly. 

"There never was a right moment," Thorin says. The earclasp is biting into his palm where he's closed his fingers around it, and Dwalin's grip is tight enough to bruise. He welcomes the small pain, uses it to ground himself in the present. "There never seemed to be a right moment, and when the years passed by and everybody assumed..." He takes a ragged breath.

Dwalin nods against Thorin's knees. He doesn't look up when he asks,

"Will you allow me to take my father's place now, Thorin?"

His voice wobbles, a hint of hope slithering through his words, and Thorin remembers countless times when Dwalin looked at him with love and trust in his eyes, and he remembers the other reason why he never approached Dwalin with the request to step up and take his father's place.  
He does not want to be a mere duty to Dwalin. He did not care with Fundin, would most likely not have cared if it had been any of his Grandfather's old, well-trusted and respected courtiers.  
But Dwalin is his friend.

"I know it is Balin's place to take, but Dori badgered him into accepting Ori as student," Dwalin continues, unable to hold his tongue. "And he cannot take two students, the laws of old forbid it - although I would wager that my brother can teach you a thing or two about the art of gentle lovemaking."

Thorin feels himself flush red-hot at his old friend's words, and the reminder as to what the Rites and Rituals entail. 

"But I swear I will be good to you," Dwalin continues, unaware of Thorin's discomfort. "I'll give you everything you want, or need."

"I think you'll need to talk to Dain on this," Thorin finally manages to squeeze out around the thick ball lodging in his throat.

Dwalin lifts his head slightly, brushes his mouth to the pale skin on his left inner arm, where a mark of Adulthood should've been placed all those years ago.

"I will talk to Dain," he promises, his words muffled against Thorin's skin, "but only if you'll have me."

Thorin is a weak Dwarf.

He cannot refuse Dwalin, cannot deny him.

~~

"We need to talk."

Thorin sighs softly and drops the quill he's used to try and write out some of his jumbled thoughts.

"I'm listening, cousin," he says, and Dain echoes his sigh and sits down next to Thorin. He rests his elbows on the table and leans his forehead into his hands for a moment before straightening again and giving Thorin a smirk.

"Dwalin approached me," he says.

Thorin nods. "I know," he answers. He's given Dwalin his promise that he'll be allowed to Teach Thorin, be his Mentor and Guide to Adulthood, and he still does not know whether that was the right decision at all.

"Dwalin is a proud warrior," Dain states. "A Dwarf who is looked upon with much respect."

"That he is."

"He learned this trade from his father, I reckon, just like Balin did, and Balin is a thorough and gentle teacher. Dwalin is more the rough sort, though, but reports of my spies tell me he has a softer side, indeed."

Thorin's eyebrows rise on their own accord, and he gives Dain a questioning look.

"I will not have you hurt by a brute who cannot control his temper," Dain declares when it becomes obvious that Thorin is not going to say anything. "If there are any doubts in your mind about this, I will not allow Dwalin this courtship. Kinon of the Blue Mountains and Foin have offered themselves for you as well. Both are honorable Dwarves and distinguished fighters. You have the choice, should you want it."

Amusement makes Thorin's lips twitch. "I am fine with Dwalin," he says and lifts his hand to his ear, to take off the clasp and hand it to Dain. "I already accepted his suit."

It is not the mithril clasp Fundin made for him. That one Thorin will receive once he undergoes the Rites. This is one of Dwalin's own clasps. It was still warm from Dwalin's own body when his old friend put it on him, and Thorin has not taken it off since.

Dain laughs at that. "The two of you, you have always been inseparable," he says fondly. "Dwalin will do good by you."

Thorin is not so sure about that, but his doubts and hesitations have their roots in the apprehension and almost fear he feels whenever he thinks about the Rites. This is something that should have happened when he was the age Kíli and Ori are now, not a hundred years later, and with every year that passed with him carrying his shameful secret, and with every whispered conversation in ale houses and taverns his fear has grown stronger.

"Very well, then," Dain says and stands, to step closer to Thorin and brush his hair away from his ear. "Dwalin it shall be." He clasps the little piece of jewelry back onto the shell of Thorin's ear and uses the time to tug gently at one of the braids. "But let Fundin's son know, that, shall harm befall you at his hands, beloved cousin, he will be the one bearing the consequences."

~~

Thorin continues to grow stronger with every day and every step he takes. He’s a Dwarf, he’s healing quickly, even from the near fatal injuries he suffered at the hands of his enemy. Soon, he can walk without wobbling, and the short trip from his bed to the fireplace doesn’t tire him out anymore.  
He is banned from attending Court, both from Oin for the sake of his health and from Dain out of a false sense of responsibility. Instead, Thorin sits with Bilbo, and in slow, halting conversations, they begin to mend the broken bridges between them. Sometimes, he sits with his sister-sons, braiding Fíli’s hair properly and helping him with various tasks. Fíli is an heir of Durin, down to his bones, and Thorin can tell how much he dislikes being unable to do the simplest things.  
Kíli is always at his brother’s side, his legs and arms for Fíli’s every need. In return, Fíli has started to speak for both of them, with Kíli adding only the occasional gesture or grimace to make his opinions known.

And then, Oin declares Thorin healthy enough to be released from his small room in the medical quarters of the Mountain, and he moves back to the Royal wings, into the very same rooms he had grown up in.  
Thror’s grand set of rooms are occupied by Dain himself, and Thorin is certain that he does not wish to take those rooms, not if he can help it. Instead, he spends a day sorting through the belongings of his family that managed to survive the desolation and Smaug. They are depressingly few, and yet, more than enough to make Thorin feel maudlin.

When Dwalin knocks and steps into Thorin's apartment, Thorin is sitting in Thrain's armchair by the fire, a knife in his hands. It had belonged to his mother, a courting gift by his father if Thorin remembers correctly. The blade has corroded, and the edge has dulled; although Thorin is pretty sure that it can be fixed with some time and dedicaion.

He has all but forgotten about Dwalin stepping by, even with Dain having told him earlier that day, and Dwalin takes only one look at him and drops the bag he brought along.

"Come on," he says and claps Thorin on the shoulder. 

"Come where?" Thorin asks, his words coming slowly, but he looks up at Dwalin and puts away the knife. After a few heartbeats, his brow furrows into a frown. "Aren't you supposed to prepare me for the Rituals?"

Dwalin snorts. "Yes," he says, "but my methods are my own. I need you relaxed and open-minded, not twisted into knots. Come on, let's go spar."

Thorin snorts, but he obediently gets up and follows Dwalin out of his rooms. "And you think sparring with you will achieve that."

Dwalin gives him a quick look. "It always has in the past," he points out, and Thorin has to admit he's speaking the truth. After a long day of council meetings, rolling around in the practice field with Dwalin has always done wonders to his mood and the tension in his shoulders.

~~

Under normal circumstances, Dwalin and Thorin are well-matched. Dwalin has the bigger strength, but Thorin has the mind of a leader and strategist and can use that to his advantage. 

Today is not a normal day. Thorin feels rusty, his foot still aches when he puts his weight on it too quickly. They face of against each other, and it doesn't take long to become obvious that Thorin is not up to his best. Dwalin easily bests him in all of their matches, and by the end of it, Thorin feels more exhausted than he did in a long while. His muscles protest every move, and sweat drenches his clothes.

Dwalin laughs when he helps his old friend back to his feet. "To the baths, then," he says, his hand broad and warm on the back of Thorin's shoulder. "You'll need it."

Thorin does not have the strength to protest. He lets Dwalin guide him to one of the private baths and lets him undress him.

It doesn't occur to him until later, that Dwalin would need to undress him in order to prepare him for the Rites as well. Right now, he simply stands by the edge of the pool and lets Dwalin peel back layers of wool and leather, until his skin and the new, still red and shiny, scars on him are revealed.

Dwalin presses rough fingertips to the mark on his chest.

"I thought I'd lost you," he says, his voice cracking suspiciously. "I thought you'd gone to the Halls of Mandos and it would take me a long while to see you again."

"I'm still here," Thorin replies to him and tangles his own fingers in Dwalin's beard. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." He shifts, and winces. "You made sure of that," he adds dryly.

Dwalin doesn't smile at that, but he nudges Thorin wordlessly into the pool and urges him to sit down and relax into the warm water.

It doesn't take long for Dwalin to slip into the water next to him and start washing Thorin's hair with slow, certain touches.

It has been too long since anyone has done this for him, Thorin thinks and lets his eyes fall closed. It must have been Dis, before they left on the quest, he thinks, just as Dwalin's nails scratch gently against his scalp and he shudders in delight.

Dwalin doesn't warn him, just grabs hold of Thorin's shoulder and pushes him underwater, to rinse the suds out of his hair. He also hauls him back up and pulls him around, until he is facing Dwalin.

They don't speak, not even when Dwalin takes hold of Thorin's hips and pulls him close, to straddle his thighs, Thorin's legs spread around Dwalin's hips.

Their foreheads touch, and still, they are silent with each other, the sound of water dripping from their beards and hair the only sound in the chamber. 

After a long moment, Dwalin shifts. His hands settle on Thorin's hips, as if they belong there. Dwalin strokes a thumb along Thorin's side, and says, "You need to talk to me."

"About what?" Thorin asks. He straightens and brushes wet strands of his hair out of his face.

Dwalin shrugs. "Everything," he says. "How far did Fundin go with you? What kind of experiences you have. Tavern maids. Everything."

Thorin feels his spine stiffen at Dwalin's words. It doesn't even matter that he knows where Dwalin's interests lie, and that he doesn't have to fear ridicule and mockery, no matter what he reveals. He knows Dwalin is his ever faithful Warrior, and his secrets are safe with Dwalin. He trusts Dwalin. 

And yet.

He does not wish to invite any mocking.

"Thorin," Dwalin murmurs fondly, effectively interrupting Thorin's circling thoughts. 

Thorin exhales sharply through his nose and consciously relaxes, his forehead coming to rest against Dwalin's again. 

"Not far," he admits. "The dragon..."

Dwalin interrupts him with a grunt and cards his fingers through Thorin's hair. It is surprisingly relaxing, and Thorin feels his muscles ease.

“We...talked. He told me about the Rites. About the things expected of me.” Thorin shifts slightly. 

“Did he touch you?” Dwalin asks, and Thorin thinks for a moment. 

“We sparred,” he then says. “He touched me all the time, Dwalin, you know that, how can I know...” He stops himself again with an anguished moan, certain that, should he look into Dwalin's face now, he will see a smirk there, a clear sign that Thorin has missed something; that this was the wrong answer.

Dwalin hums gently and runs his hand along Thorin's side. “Did he make you come?” he asks. “Did he touch you here?” His hand moves downwards and curls around Thorin's cock, petting once and then retreating.

Thorin nods once. 

“Did you like it?” Dwalin wants to know. “Did it please you?”

Thorin feels the blood fill his ears, hot and sharp. He cannot answer the question, his teeth locked together and his jaw clenched tight enough to make his skull pound from the sudden tension.

“What about after?” Dwalin asks when Thorin doesn't answer. “Tavern maids. Dwarrowdams. Anything.”

Thorin just shakes his head. There never was anyone, and he is certain Dwalin knows that. 

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, his voice soft and heartbreakingly gentle. His broad, strong hands move along Thorin's skin, petting him but not using any force, as if Thorin needs tenderness right now instead of the rough, firm grip he's always used in the past. “Thorin.”

Thorin is not sure whether he likes it or not. It definitely confuses him, because this is not how they are with each other, Dwalin and he. They are warriors, both of them, and a part of Thorin expected Dwalin to approach the Rites with the same intent.

Part of him is disappointed that apparently, Dwalin's gentle side expands to more than Hobbits, willing maidens and children of all races, and another part is relieved.

“Thorin,” Dwalin says a third time, “why was there never anyone else?” 

“Nobody interested me,” he manages to force out, and while the words rasp across his tongue, he already knows that they are not quite true, and he amends, “The one that did...never showed me any interest.”

Another half-truth. Dwalin once offered him a tumble in the hay after the summer solstice festival, when they both had had too much ale, and Thorin had been frozen in shock, not quite trusting his ears and unable to respond in any way. By the time is tongue had loosened enough to accept the offer, Dwalin had long fallen asleep.

Dwalin sighs, but he doesn't say anything else. Instead, he reaches for the soap and a piece of cloth and starts to wash Thorin with more gentleness than Thorin can bear.

~~  
They are out of the water and dressed in clean, soft clothes when Dwalin speaks again.

“You're expecting this to be rough,” he says, “rough and a duty to be done.” He hesitates for a moment, and Thorin almost points out that it is just a duty, a ritual, an honor to boost for Dwalin and a means to an end for Thorin, to take the throne of his forefathers back in his hands, but he holds his tongue, sensing that this kind of reply will not sit well with his old friend.

Dwalin yanks at his hair, untangling it roughly, as if something has angered him.

“It's not just that. Not to you, and not for you,” he continues. “It can be rough, and sometimes, you will want it to hurt, to distract you from all the other things, but not the Rites.” Another knot untangles when Dwalin yanks his comb through it, and Thorin's scalp tingles.

“You deserve the best,” Dwalin says with a sigh, and suddenly, his touch gentles into something so unbearably sweet and affectionate that Thorin feels uncomfortable. He is not quite sure he deserves affection and gentleness, not after all the things he has done. 

“You deserve to know what it can be like. To be loved.” His voice cracks again, and the comb glides through Thorin's hair without a hitch now, and suddenly, Thorin understands.

“Dwalin...” he starts, and to his absolute horror and mortification, his own voice starts wobbling too.

“Dwalin,” he says again, and then, he stops. His head is empty of any useful thought, no matter how far he casts his mind. He almost laughs, but it would be a bitter laugh, full of disappointment and full of regret.

He has missed so many chances to do right by the people closest to him, he thinks bitterly. So many years have gone by, and he has been focused so much on the well-being of his people that the well-being of those individuals closest to him has stayed unnoticed and hidden from him. He has been blind, and others have suffered for it.

“I have to go,” he finally presses out, his voice high and thin in his own ears. He yanks his hair out of Dwalin's grip, not caring that he's leaving a few strands behind, and stumbles to his feet.

He is wearing nothing but pants and a tunic, and the soft boots that keep his feet warm but can not withstand anything worse than the polished stone floor in the personal rooms of a Dwarf, but he does not stop to grab anything more appropriate.

He also ignores Dwalin's shout. He isn't even able to make out words over the rush of blood in his ears.

All he knows is that he needs to get away.

He needs time and space to think.

~~

Dain finds him, hours later, in one of the small alcoves high above the throne room. Thorin sits on the ground with both knees pulled up to his chest and his spine pressed into the soothing steadiness of Erebor's stone walls.

“Your Company is looking for you,” Dan says by way of greeting and sits down next to him. “You gave Dwalin quite a scare, whatever you did, or he would've remembered how we used to hide here as Dwarflings.”

Thorin's lips curve into the barest hint of a smile at the memory. “Master Tolin's etiquette lessons,” he says, and Dain laughs out loud in delight.

They sit in silence for a moment, the rustle of their clothes as Dain takes off his coat and wraps it around Thorin's shoulders the only sound around them.

“My father,” Dain finally says, when the silence drags on for too long, “did not know I was fighting the battle of Azanulbizar until it was halfway done and we met on the battlefield, our axes aiming to behead the same goblin.”

Thorin tilts his head slightly toward him.

“He thought me safe in camp,” Dain continues, “with the women and the other children. I should have been there, to his knowledge.” He chuckles ruefully. “I know your wizard calls me pigheaded, unreasonable and more stubborn than any other dwarf he knows, including you. Maybe he is right about that.”

Thorin manages a questioning sound, and Dain explains, “Instead of doing as my father had ordered, I found myself a drunken warrior the night before the battle and did what I thought I had to do.”

Thorin grimaces. “I cannot imagine your father's reaction to that,” he comments. “When Frerin did something like that, shortly after the dragon came, Grandfather was...” he stops and shakes his head.

“Yeah, but cousin Frerin did it because he thought himself in love, and did not wish to be given to another,” Dain points out calmly. “Because he believed it to be the right thing to do. I did it for all the wrong reasons, and with the wrong Dwarf.”

Thorin looks at his cousin. “Do you feel I chose the wrong Dwarf for the task?” he asks quietly.

Dain tilts his head to the side slightly. 

“I think,” he says, “you couldn't have chosen a better Dwarf than Dwalin. I just don't know if you are ready for the Rites. You know it should be more than a task, a distasteful duty you need to get over with. It was for me, and I regretted it from the first painful moment to this day.” He nudges his elbow against Thorin's. “When my own son came of age and it fell to me to choose a Mentor for him to guide him through the Rites, I made sure he was involved into the choice, of course, but I also made sure both were certain of their choice, and I made sure the Dwarf chosen for the task would not harm him in any way. And then, I let them wait for a year.”

Thorin snorts. “A year.”

Dain grins widely. “My son,” he says, “promised to abide by my rules and to wait. He told me so while standing before my throne; his head was bare and bowed in respect, he held no weapons in his hands. And you know what he did? He waited for five months, and then he left on a hunting trip with his Mentor. They did not return for several days, and when they did, he brought home no meat or furs, but a mithril bead in his beard.”

“He defied your order?” Thorin asks.

Dain shrugs. “He is my son, and he bears your name, cousin,” Dain says. “It is in his blood to defy the orders of his father, and to make his own fate. Do not tell me Dis' sons never disobeyed you.”

Thorin shrugs. “Once,” he says, a shadow falling over him at the memory.

“The Rites is a deeply personal event in any Dwarf's life,” Dain says. “I did not punish my son for not waiting. And you, cousin...” He nudges Thorin again. “You have the stubbornness of Durin himself, and if you wish to go through with the Rites, I cannot stop you. I can only tell you about my experiences. And if you want me to, I can order Dwalin to keep his distance from you.”

“You cannot,” Thorin reminds him tiredly. “You gave me to him.”

“I gave, and I can take away,” Dain points out.

“It would be a grave insult,” Thorin points out.

“Hurting you against your wishes would be a grave insult. No.” Dain shakes his head firmly. “Hurting you would be a grave insult. I do not believe you are quite certain whether you wish to be hurt, or whether you deserve kindness.”

Thorin does not answer for a long moment.

“Here I am,” he says finally, rubbing a hand across his face, “hiding like a scared Dwarfling, instead of facing the consequences of my actions like the Warrior I thought myself to be.”

Dain shrugs. “Even the strangest warrior grows weak when confronted with things he cannot slay,” he says philosophically. “I fought in many a battle, and yet, I wept like a baby when my wife put my son in my arms for the first time, and I wept again when she went into the stone.”

“I don't know what you'd have me to do,” Thorin admits. He feels helpless, tired and old, and the Rites lie heavy upon his shoulders, like a coat of the heaviest metal.

Dain thinks for a moment.

“Too many have seen that you carry no marks of adulthood,” he then says. “Both Dwarves and others, including the bloody Elves. Erebor is the most important of the Dwarven Kingdoms. We need a strong king who cannot be doubted – not by Dwarves, and certainly not by any other race of Middle-Earth. More and more Dwarves return to the Mountain every day. For Erebor's sake, you must undergo the Rites. For yours, I hope you won't make the same mistake I did.” He stands and looks down at Thorin. “Trust yourself – and if you feel Dwalin is not the right one for you, do not hesitate to let me know.” He grins. “And now, would you like to join me in a council meeting? I believe it is time for you to show your enemies that you are not easily beaten.”

~~

“We have about one hour until your presence is required at Dain's council,” Dwalin says as he steps into the room. Thorin does not turn at the sound of his voice. He is too used to Dwalin's presence in his life, he thinks, too aware of Dwalin's presence when he is near. He has always been.

Dwalin steps up to him and lowers his head slightly, to nuzzle his lips against Thorin's shoulder for a moment.

“I've been thinking,” Dwalin murmurs. “About what you said.” He takes a deep breath. “I wish to teach you well, and I want to kiss you.”

Thorin grins. “Mannish rites?” he asks while turning around, to face his old friend, but he does not step back when Dwalin weaves his hands in Thorin's hair and tilts his head up. His lips brush against Thorin's, gentle and slow at first, and when it becomes obvious that Thorin will not object to this, he opens his mouth and slides his tongue against Thorin's bottom lip, wet and hot and insistingly.

The tip of Dwalin's tongue runs along the inside of Thorin's bottom lip for a moment before curling against his teeth, seeking out Thorin's own tongue and stroking alongside it. 

Thorin allows it, and when Dwalin invites him to return the caress, he does so, his own tongue clumsy compared to Dwalin's, more hesitant and with less skill. 

It doesn't seem to bother Dwalin, who groans and kisses him again, his tongue curving carefully along the sharp edge of Thorin's teeth, especially the one on the left side of his jaw, with its jagged and broken edge. It is as if Dwalin knows his body better than Thorin himself does, and maybe he does. Dwalin was there for the tavern fight in which Thorin's tooth got broken in the first place. He was there when Thorin received most of the scars covering his body, for bruises and cuts, insults and injuries he suffered.

They stay like this for the entire time until the council meeting, Thorin leaning against Dwalin and Dwalin's fingers curled into Thorin's hair, and when they finally part, Thorin's lips feel soft and tender and swollen, his heart is racing a little, and he is certain that every Dwarf in Dain's meeting will know what they have done.

~~

Thorin's place is by Dain's right side, slightly behind and below him until he has undergone the Rites. Today, he is joined by Dain's son, Thorin Stonehelm, who nervously glances at him every so often. Thorin tries to ignore it. He is not quite sure why the younger Dwarf is here today, knowing too well that Thorin Stonehelm's duties rarely force him to participate in these meetings.

Fíli is there as well. He has regained enough strength to sit up without help, but Oin's diagnosis proved to be true, and he has not regained the strength of his legs. Therefore, he is accompanied by his brother, who mirrors Thorin's position by staying behind Fíli's right shoulder and silently watching the proceedings.

To the unpracticed observer, it seems as if Kíli is not even paying much attention to the talks, but Thorin knows him too well for this to work. He notices how Kíli's fingers twitch ever so often against Fíli's side, sketching out brief gestures in îglishmek, and it does not take him long to figure out that Kíli is paying attention to the meeting as much as Fíli himself is. Together, they see more than each on his own, and Thorin has to bite back a smile at the sight of them working together like this.

The meeting is almost over when Thorin Stonehelm coughs politely and bows his head toward his father, indicating that he has an issue he would like to bring to a council member's attention. Dain nods, allowing him to speak, and Thorin almost expects his cousin's son to mention the instabilities in the deeper mines, but instead, Thorin steps up to Fíli and starts talking in flawless khuzdul.

It takes Thorin a while to realize what is going on, and when he does, he has to curl his hands into fists and bite his tongue to stop himself from marching across the council chamber, grabbing his namesake's ear and dragging him away in furious anger, for Thorin dares approaching Fíli and asking to be Kíli's Mentor.

Judging by the expression on Fíli's face, Thorin is not the only one surprised by the proposal, and when Fíli straightens in his seat and calmly answers, “No,” without adding a reason, Thorin Stonehelm does not seem overly surprised.

He simply gives Kíli a quick glance and a shrug, as if saying that he had to try, and Kíli smiles and places his palm flat on Fíli's shoulder.

“Your proposal has been denied,” Dain announces out loud, and Kíli gestures at Thorin and then at his brother again, until Fíli finally growls, “Fine.”

Thorin glances at Dain and decides that it is about time he has a serious conversation with Kíli.

~~

Men, Thorin thinks while blinking dazedly at the ceiling, are curious creatures with crazy customs, almost as bad as Elves.

Dwalin presses his lips to his chest again and drags his tongue wetly across a nipple that is already gleaming with sweat and spit. It sends a spike of sensation through Thorin's entire body, and he shudders softly.

Dwalin's lips curve into a smile, and he turns toward Thorin's other nipple, to tease it with gentle bites that are never painful. Just as Thorin starts to think that he can't stand one more second of this gentle torture, Dwalin moves and licks and kisses a path along the middle of Thorin's body, teasing dark hair and the pale skin hidden underneath. He stops at Thorin's hip, and Thorin feels his teeth and then wet suction.

In a Man, such a thing would certainly cause a bruise. In tough Dwarvish skin, it only causes another tingle of sensation, now centering in his hard cock and tender balls. 

Dwalin lifts his head briefly to grin at Thorin and then presses a kiss to the shaft of Thorin's cock. It is enough to shock Thorin into stillness – trust Men to take kissing another step further, and trust Dwalin to consider this interesting enough to teach it to Thorin. 

“What do you think?” Dwalin asks, his breath hot and moist against Thorin's flesh, and then he puts his mouth on him again, wrapping his lips around the head and sucking and licking until all Thorin can do is pant and groan. His fingers are clenched tight in the bedsheet underneath him, holding on for dear life, because he feels as if he will fly apart if he doesn't. Dwalin is relentless, his mouth wet suction and a teasing tongue, and Thorin has no defenses against this kind of assault. 

Dwalin smirks around his mouthful and rolls Thorin's balls in one palm for a moment, and when Thorin shudders in shocked delight, he presses fingertips behind them and rubs.

Thorin comes with a pained groan and an arched spine, sweat sliding along his thighs and ribs, unable to hold anything back.

For a long moment, he remains motionless, his chest rising and falling as he pants, but as soon as the world stops spinning around him and Dwalin crawls up to curl against his back again, he manages to move again.

He shifts until his body is covering Dwalin's again. Dwalin's body hair is rough against his skin, and Thorin shudders and gasps again.

“Shall I return the favor?” he murmurs before touching his lips to Dwalin's in an all-too brief caress. 

“Only if you want to,” Dwalin manages, but before he can add a single word, Thorin slides down and applies his own lips, tongue and teeth to the broad chest spread out before him.

He is quite certain that he, despite being a good student, cannot replicate exactly what Dwalin has done to him, but Dwalin is a gracious Mentor and arches and groans underneath him nonetheless.

~~

Bilbo steps up to Thorin on the balcony high above the newly repaired front gate with a polite cough and leans his elbows on the parapet next to Thorin's.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin greets quietly. “How are you today?”

“I'm well, thank you,” Bilbo replies before grimacing. “The past few weeks definitely proved to be interesting. I cannot tell you how many people stepped up to me and demanded to see a certain tattoo I do not possess. How are you?”

Thorin shrugs and pulls the coat tight around his body. Dwarves don't get cold easily, but since the battle, he feels the cold more acutely and more sharply.

Bilbo shivers next to him, and Thorin doesn't hesitate before wrapping his coat around the two of them, the Hobbit pulled close to his side.

“Won't Dwalin get jealous?” Bilbo murmurs, but he doesn't protest the treatment.

Thorin hums thoughtfully. “I hope not,”, he says at least. “But then, why would he?”

Bilbo looks up at him with a puzzled frown. “Dwalin is in love with you, Thorin,” he finally says. “Haven't you noticed?”

Thorin buys some time by wrapping his coat more tightly around both of them before he answers. 

“I know,” he then says. “He has been for a long time.”

Bilbo thinks for a moment. “And...how do you feel about that?” he asks curiously.

Thorin hums. “I am not quite sure yet,” he admits. 

“Maybe you need to figure that out before you start doing anything else,” Bilbo murmurs before shivering again. He leans against Thorin trustingly, and Thorin wraps both arms around him and holds him close, breathing in the by now familiar scent of the Halfling.

Bilbo, he thinks quietly, is the only one under the Mountain who does not treat him differently than before. It's a subtle change in most Dwarves' behavior, but it is a change nonetheless, and it chafes like a grain of sand under a saddle.

“How do you feel about Dwalin?” Bilbo asks. He sounds curious, but not judgmental, and he looks up at Thorin with wide eyes.

“He's always been loyal to me,” he says. “A good friend.”

Bilbo smiles. “Just a friend?”

Thorin grins faintly. “Maybe more,” he admits. “However, I cannot be sure about that.”

“Do you not know your own mind, Thorin Oakenshield?” Bilbo teases him, but the smile he gives him is so warm and soft, it is obvious Bilbo can see through Thorin as if he were made of spun glass.

They stand there, together under one cloak, for a long while, and then, they find themselves in the guest quarters assigned to Bilbo, large mugs of steaming tea in their hands and a plate of Bombur's freshly baked biscuits on the table between them, talking about the old tales of Dwarves.

~~

This time, it is Dwalin who finds him in the alcove above the throne room, listening in on a council meeting without the council knowing him to be there. He has a sheaf of paper with him and a quill, and occasionally, he takes a few notes, to remind him of facts to pester Dain with later. When he notices Dwalin, he silently moves aside to make room for his old friend.

“Are you watching court?” Dwalin murmurs into his ear. “You know you have the right to attend. You've been standing beside Thror's throne for decades. Dain himself invited you to bear witness to his decisions.”

“It feels wrong,” Thorin admits and leans his shoulder against Dwalin. “I'd rather watch this from here.” He nods at the circle of stone seats under them. “They are discussing if our burglar should be judged along the laws of Durin, or if other rules apply to him.”

“Did they come to a decision?” Dwalin wants to know, and Thorin shrugs. 

“They are still discussing it,” he murmurs. “But they will not judge him by Durin's law, because it would mean that they have to give him new privileges, as well.”

“Such as teaching him khuzdul,” Dwalin murmurs. “But I think Bifur has already taught him a good deal of it.”

Thorin hums and nods. Instead of focusing on the point – Bilbo is a quick thinker, and it almost impossible to stop him from learning khuzdul if he puts his mind to it, no matter if it is a secret Dwarvish language or not.

Dwalin nudges him. “Balin is looking for you.”

“What does he need me for?” Thorin wants to know, a puzzled frown on his face.

Dwalin shrugs. “He's in the library,” he simply says. “If you can bear to be deprived of the exciting happenings of a court session.”

Thorin grins. “I might, although the fate of mine three north is next on the agenda, and it promises to be a very interesting and exciting discussion.”

~~

He finds Balin in one of the high-backed chairs at the end of the library, in the teaching room, a book in his lap and Ori, Kíli, Fíli and Thorin Stonehelm on low stools and pillows around his feet. Fíli is on the ground, his legs spread out and his back against a young dwarrowdam's legs. Her hair is a shade darker than Fíli's, and she's smiling gently down at him while braiding Fíli's hair with quick, nimble fingers.

Thorin raises his eyebrows at the sight, but he doesn't say anything as he steps closer to the group. When Kíli sees him, he grins widely and greets him with quick îglishmek, and Thorin allows his sister-son to pull him down and into their group.

It is a teaching session, he quickly realizes, but it is nothing like the ones he remembers from his youth. Balin is talking about responsibility, and all of the young Dwarves are listening attentively. Kíli sits down and wraps one arm around Thorin's leg, effectively pinning him in place, and Fíli wordlessly passes him a comb and nods at his brother without moving his head too much. Thorin obediently begins to brush out Kíli's hair.

“A Dwarf never forces himself unto an unwilling partner,” Balin reads from the book, and Thorin remembers the book, remembers old Master Tolin reading in a low monotone, and he remembers Fundin explaining some of these things to him later in a calm and steady voice.

“Thorin,” Balin says suddenly, and Thorin looks up automatically, but Balin is looking at Thorin Stonehelm, who straightens slightly. “No means no,” he recites. “If Kíli says stop, I stop.”

Balin nods, and Kíli, his head in his uncle's lap, snorts softly.

“If you say stop, and your Mentor does not ...” Balin prompts and nods at Ori.

“...I will have the right to ask for his beard,” Ori mumbles. He's obviously uncomfortable, squirming in place and blushing faintly. Considering that Balin is Ori's Mentor, Thorin is not really surprised by his discomfort.

Kíli's hands move slowly, thoughtfully.

“Unreliable how?” Balin asks, and watches as Kíli sketches more words into the air.

“Well, if you say stop and your Mentor thinks you are not serious, but you are, you can demand his beard. For his duty is to you,” Balin explains. “Also, if he says he did not hear you say it – or see it, as things are.” He gives all of his students, including Thorin, a long look. “What do we do if we are not quite certain we can trust our Mentor?” he asks, and this time, it is Fíli who answers.

“Use a witness for a situation like that,” he says. “Talk to the Mentor, change Mentors. And in the end, a small blade, strong enough to slip through Dwarven skin, can do the trick.” He reaches out and tugs his knee to his chest with both hands, to reach into his boot and pull out one of his many knives. He hefts it in his hand for a moment before handing it to Kíli.

Balin nods approvingly, and the discussion turns toward other topics.

~~

“It was my suggestion you join the lessons,” Dain admits freely while writing his name underneath the text on a piece of parchment. “To remind you of the things you once knew.”

Thorin does not reply to it, and instead turns the conversation back to the question whether Bilbo Baggins should be judged by the laws of Durin himself.

By the time their discussion is nearing the end, it is getting late, and Thorin makes a split decision and slips into Dwalin's rooms unnoticed, his soft boots making no sound on the polished stone. He drops his clothes onto the floor and crawls onto the bed and between the furs, only to realize that he hadn't been as quiet as he thought and that Dwalin is awake and has known about his presence here from the beginning. He hasn't even reached for a knife.

Silently, he accepts Thorin worming his way into his bed. It is dark, with only the banked fire illuminating the scene, and Thorin looks for shelter from his inner tumoils in Dwalin's arms.

Dwalin turns him until Thorin's back is to his chest, and nuzzles his nose into Thorin's hair. His arms wrap tightly around his middle, and Thorin feels the tension in is shoulders ease slightly.

“Rough day?” Dwalin grumbles after a while. Thorin growls, and Dwalin kisses the back of his neck and starts rubbing soothing circles into his stomach.

It doesn't take Thorin long to turn in Dwalin's arms and bury his face in his old friend's beard like a Dwarfling, but when Dwalin starts nibbling on his ear, he lifts his head again and allows Dwalin to kiss him gently. 

Dwalin's tongue nudges against Thorin's lips teasingly, and Thorin opens his mouth without hesitation, allowing Dwalin entrance.

For a long while, they kiss unhurriedly, Dwalin's hands stroking and petting Thorin's back and tugging both their tunics up piece by piece. After a while, he rolls onto his back and pulls Thorin on top of him. He places both hands on Thorin's hips, encourages him to rub against him, against his naked body, and kisses him again.

Their arousal rises and rises to almost feverish heights. Thorin groans, a bitten off sound muffled by Dwalin's shoulder, and shudders.

He comes, hot and wet, against Dwalin's stomach, with a sharp cry on his lips, and Dwalin follows him soon after, bucking up against Thorin's relaxed body until he crests, his fingers clutching at Thorin's hips and holding him close.

After a while, Dwalin rolls them over and gets up again, to get a wet washcloth to clean them both up.

“Thorin?” he asks softly.

“I'm fine,” Thorin immediately replies and gives him a soft smile, almost invisible in the darkness. Dwalin pulls him back into his arm and holds him close again.

“Do you have a knife?” he asks, even if he is almost sure Thorin has managed to doze off. 

“What for?” Thorin asks. He sounds wide awake, but at ease with himself. 

“The Rites,” Dwalin clarifies. “To stop me, if necessary.” He grimaces. 

Thorin gives him a long look. “I don't need it,” he says quietly, but firmly. “I'm your King, Dwalin, and you have sworn to protect me. You will not harm me.”

There is so much quiet conviction in his voice it borders on arrogance, but every word he says is true, and Dwalin's heart soars at the return of Thorin's confidence.

It doesn't last for long – he can already tell by the set of Thorin's shoulders – but for the moment it is enough.

~~

They walk the halls of Erebor together – Thorin, Bilbo by his side, and Fíli on Thorin's back, arms wrapped tight around Thorin's shoulders and useless legs dangling. Thorin explains things, shows his sister-son the places he's always talked about, and Bilbo listens with wide eyes as Thorin talks about his childhood, about the life of a Dwarven prince, exotic as it seems to him. 

They take their time, and even with Fíli's weight growing heavier and heavier across his back as the day goes on, Thorin does not tire.

This is his kin, his blood, his heir, and he will carry Fíli as long as he must, and even beyond that point.

They break their fast in a cave deep below the mountain. Gemstones glitter in the walls and reflect the light of the lanterns they carry, the sound of water dripping and their carrying voices make for a strange atmosphere. Bilbo shivers and sits closer to Thorin than it is proper, but he does not complain and splits their bread and cheese into three equal shares with nimble fingers.

They eat in silence, and then, Fíli coughs and says, his gentle voice echoing around the cave, “Uncle, I don't think I can be king.”

~~

“He's right, you know.” Balin sighs and sips at his tea. “His position as king will always be a weak one. He cannot lead his people into battle, not like this.”

Thorin paces, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “He is a distinguished warrior,” he argues. “One of the best.”

“That he was, aye,” Balin agrees calmly and takes a biscuit. Ori had taken one look at Thorin's face when he'd shown up and had disappeared, not that Thorin paid any attention to his presence here. Balin is Ori's Mentor, thanks to Dori knowing exactly what he wants and going for it, and if Balin's clothes look a little as if his old friend has just thrown them over without proper care it is none of Thorin's business.

“Fíli knows what he's doing,” Balin says and takes another bite of his biscuit. “He is a smart lad, Thorin. Kíli and Thorin will be a good match to take the throne after you.”

“Kíli and Thorin?” Thorin repeats sharply. “Balin, what is going on here?”

Balin smiles. “Just two young Dwarves falling in love,” he points out. “Thorin is a good lad, and you know it. He's making sure Kíli knows as much as he needs to, and so far, he has taken the time to join him for meals and lessons every day.”

Thorin growls. “He's supposed to mentor him, nothing else,” he protests, and Balin chuckles and pours more tea.

“And what about my brother, Thorin? Is he supposed to just mentor you and then take his leave?” he asks. His voice sounds like velvet, soft and gentle, but Thorin knows of the steel underneath.

Also, Balin has made a good point. Thorin knows that Dwalin loves him, and he loves Dwalin. There is no way he can let Dwalin go once the Mentorship has finished.

“Hmm,” Balin hums, and Thorin growls again and sits down next to him. 

The tea in the fine cups has cooled enough to drink, and it is good, exquisite tea. Thorin does not need to ask to know that Dori picked it.

“And what about you, old friend?” he asks and reaches for a biscuit. “Where does your interest lie, in Ori or in his meddlesome brother?”

“Oh,” Balin says amusedly, “I can asssure you that I have no interest in Nori, at all.”

Thorin considers throwing the biscuit at him, but it is too good to waste. A dark look has to suffice.

~~

Dwalin kisses him briefly before bringing their foreheads together, and Thorin hums and allows it.

“Tomorrow, I need to ride to Dale,” Dwalin murmurs. “Do you wish to come?”

Thorin thinks for a moment, but it sounds like a good idea. Maybe the open space and the fresh air will help him come to terms with Fíli's actions, and the fact that Kíli obviously has found love in the arms of Dain's son.

Balin is right, Thorin Stonehelm and Kíli would make a good pair of rulers for the Mountain, and yet, Thorin does not want to accept it so easily. 

It should be Fíli on the throne, not his brother, a rebellious voice whispers in his head, and Thorin does not know how to make it shut up.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I would like to ride to Dale with you.”

Dwalin nods and smiles, and then, he draws Thorin onto the furs of his bed. They undress hastily, and Dwalin kneels down before him and kisses his cock before taking it deep into his mouth. One hand pushes at Thorin's stomach, encouraging him to lie down, and Thorin thinks about resisting, about watching Dwalin's mouth form this perfect shape around him, but Dwalin pushes him again while closing his lips in a tight ring around the tip of his cock and sucking, and Thorin cannot deny him any longer.

Dwalin pushes one of his legs up and over his shoulder, and Thorin sighs as rough, calloused fingertips run gently along the inside of his thigh, across his balls and the tender skin behind them. Every touch sends a spark through his body, and Dwalin seems to know that.  
His fingers disappear for a moment, and Thorin opens his mouth to ask, but Dwalin curls his tongue around his cock and distracts him, and before long, the fingers are back, and they are wet and cool and slippery where they rub against Thorin's skin.

Dwalin hums and pulls off, to give Thorin an assessing look, before he slides one single digit into him.

It feels strange, like an intruder, and all of Thorin's muscles lock at once. Dwalin ceases every movement, and for a moment, they stare at each other. Thorin's eyes are wide, and Dwalin smirks a little and demonstratively bends down, to suck his cock back into his mouth.

He leaves his finger exactly where it is.

After a moment, Thorin huffs a laugh and leans back into the pillows again. He wriggles experimentally, and Dwalin rewards him by sucking harder and letting his finger slide a fraction deeper.

They repeat this pattern a few times before Dwalin starts to pull his finger out, to add more of the thick oil, and sinks it back inside, slick and with as much ease as he can.

~~

“Can I do the same to you?” Thorin asks drowsily, and Dwalin smiles and kisses him.

“You can do anything you want to me,” he promises. “My King.”

~~

Dwalin is a Dwarf of his word, and when the warriors of the Blue Mountains annoy him too much with their postering and their knowing smirks, he leaves the training cavern with a plan fully-formed in his mind.

He finds Thorin in the throne hall, standing behind Dain and listening as a short, bowed Dwarf dressed in elaborate robes finishes a long speech about the purity of Durin's Laws and how every citizen of the Mountain has to abide by them.

Thorin is frowning, and Dwalin steps up to him as quietly as he can in his metal-plated boots and places a hand on his forearm. He squeezes once, and Thorin nods tensely and leans toward Dain, to murmur something into his ear.

Dain nods once, his eyes never leaving the old Dwarf's figure, and Thorin straightens and follows Dwalin out.

“What do you need me for?” he asks. He sounds tired, Dwalin notices, and he simply takes Thorin's hand again and leads him to his quarters.

They have slept here every night since that first time Thorin came to him. By now, Thorin's clothes have found their way here as well, and Dwalin is certain that his old friend has not set foot into his own set of rooms since.

Silently, he starts undressing Thorin, article of clothing for article of clothing, until Thorin stands before him, bare and shivering slightly.

“I want you on the bed, on your back,” Dwalin murmurs and kisses Thorin's collarbone gently. “Go on, I'll be with you in a moment.”

Thorin nods, and Dwalin turns to stoke the fire and take off his own clothes. When he looks at Thorin again, he is indeed on the bed, his head propped up by the many pillows.

He's beautiful, Dwalin thinks, beautiful and majestic, and a wave of affection and love swamps him. He grabs the oil in its stoppered bottle and crawls onto the bed, straddling Thorin's hips and leaning down to kiss him.

“You asked me, the last time,” he says while reaching for Thorin's cock, which has already started to fill with blood. 

Thorin nods before he ends the sentence, so Dwalin doesn't. He trails off and kisses Thorin, his tongue demanding and thick in Thorin's mouth, and reaches down with one slick hand to grab Thorin's cock and stroke it into hardness.

“All I need you to do is stay this way,” Dwalin tells him between kisses. “Put your hands on me, if you want. And tell me at once when you grow uncomfortable.”

He barely waits for Thorin to nod before kissing him again, but this time, he lures Thorin's tongue into his own mouth before sitting down.

The wet, slick head of Thorin's cock presses against his ass, and Dwalin groans and relaxes his muscles as much as he can. Thorin makes a shocked sound underneath him, and Dwalin exhales and grins as the head enters him.

He allows gravity to help him take more, and it feels so good that Dwalin could already come, with Thorin's cock barely in him.

“It'll get even better,” he manages to pant out before groaning again when Thorin reaches out and twists a nipple between his fingertips.

He knows he won't last long, and judging from the sounds coming from Thorin's mouth, he is not the only one. Thorin ist determined to follow his orders and stay still, but his entire body trembles and twitches, and Dwalin takes full advantage and takes more of him into himself.

“You are perfect,” he groans and licks Thorin's ear, across the metal tang of his earclasp and the hot salty skin underneath. “You feel so perfect in me.” He pulls back and sinks down again, taking more and more of Thorin, until his ass is touching Thorin's thighs and he feels full enough to burst.

His cock is hard enough to hammer nails, and Thorin, with a wounded sound that would worry Dwalin in any other situation, reaches for it and wraps fingers made clumsy with arousal around it.

None of them will last long, Dwalin thinks, but he cannot hold still, he has to move, and he does, establishing a quick rhythm that hits the spot and makes him feel wild and reckless and free.

It is true that neither of them last long, but in the aftermath, when their hearts are still racing like wild horses, they curl up between the furs and sheets and Thorin allows Dwalin to hold on to him with both arms and all of his strength.

~~

“Ori and Balin have gone into seclusion,” Dwalin reports one evening, when he stops by the library where Thorin is digging through ancient law books and trying to find out whether Bilbo needs a mark of adulthood or not. “I'm guessing they're taking the Rites soon. Maybe tonight.” He tilts his head and leans his hip against the table. “Do you want some food?”

Thorin looks up from the tome and nods. His eyes are burning from the dust of centuries, and his spine cracks loudly when he straightens. Dwalin just waits until he's cleaned up his workspace, and then, they walk toward the Great Halls, side by side, equals for the moment, their shoulders bumping and their steps of equal length.

“What about Thorin and Kíli?” Thorin muses after a while. “Do you think they are ready yet?”

Dwalin shrugs. “Not sure,” he admits. “But I don't think so.”

Thorin just nods.

They are almost at the Great Hall when he stops and looks thoughtfully at Dwalin. “What about me?”

“Do you feel ready?” Dwalin asks back gruffly. “Can you look me in the eye and promise that you feel ready? Swear to the Maker, Thorin.”

“I can't,” Thorin admits. “But I'd like to try it. I want...” He swallows, his throat moving, and Dwalin's eyes are automatically drawn there. “...I want to know,” he finally says. “And I want you.”

He is blushing again, not an easy feat in a Dwarf, Dwalin thinks, and he has to stop and consciously breathe through his nose for a moment.

“I love you,” he points out, as if it is the most logical thing in the world. Apples fall to the ground, snow is followed by spring, and Dwalin loves Thorin.

“And I, you,” Thorin replies without hesitation and smiles faintly. “Let there be doubt in others, for my heart knows none.”

Dwalin grins and reaches out, to hold Thorin steady while he kisses him, deeply and with all the feelings he has, and it takes a stronger Dwarf than Dwalin, to stop the thought of dragging Thorin back to their rooms and taking the last step that is left.

~~

Dwalin sits back on his bed, his shoulders pressed against the headboard, pillows piled high against his spine to make him recline slightly.

He looks gorgeous, Thorin thinks as he scrambles after him, knees spread wide to help him keep his balance, hair a wild tangle around his shoulders.

He cannot believe it himself, how much he changed since he woke up after the Battle of the Five Armies. If someone had told him before that he would have Dwalin like this, he would have laughed harshly. Now, he just leans down and kisses Dwalin, deep and wet, while crawling even closer, his legs spread wide around Dwalin's hips.

Dwalin's hands seem to be everywhere at once, and every touch sends heat and sparks through Thorin's body. He still gives as good as he gets, licking and sucking and nibbling gently on every patch of skin he can reach.

“This is not something Fundin would have approved of,” Thorin hums when Dwalin reaches for the stoppered bottle of oil.

Dwalin shrugs with one shoulder. “Probably not,” he admits. “But why should we not do this, when it feels good?” he runs his fingers down the center of Thorin's chest and stomach. Both their skin soon glistens with the oil, and Dwalin grins widely.

“Kiss me once more,” he asks, and Thorin bends over him, fingers tangled in Dwalin's beard, and presses their mouths together. One of Dwalin's hands skates down his back, to his ass, and squeezes.

By now, Thorin doesn't even flinch anymore when Dwalin's fingers slide into him, one at first, then two. Dwalin kisses his throat, rubs his nose against Thorin's short beard and bites gently at his collar bone, his chest, his chin.

Thorin's fingers clench into Dwalin's shoulders, holding on and digging in, and Dwalin tangles his free, clean hand into Thorin's hair and kisses him thoroughly while pressing a third of his thick dwarven fingers into him.

This, they have not done before, and Thorin grunts, the muscles at the small of his back tightening.

“Am I hurting you?” Dwalin murmurs and turns his head slightly to the side, to press his lips gently to his bare forearm, where his mark of adulthood should be.

Thorin shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “Just unexpected, is all.”

Dwalin hums, but his fingers move slowly, carefully, without ever stopping, and after a while, Thorin relaxes into the touch and moves with Dwalin's touch, into it and manages to lose himself in the sparks of sensation racing through him at every stroke of Dwalin's fingertips deep within him.

When Dwalin's free hand settles on his hip and stills his movement to pull his fingers free, Thorin forces his eyes open and frowns at him.

“You look good like this,” Dwalin tells him gruffly. He is flushed, his eyes bright, and Thorin licks his suddenly dry lips and asks,

“Why did you stop, then?”

Dwalin's face splits into a grin. “Thought you might want more,” he says and throws a quick, meaningful glance at his own lap.

“Oh.” Thorin bites his lip and blushes, but a throb of want goes through him at the idea of them doing it, of feeling Dwalin in him.

He hums quietly and swallows. “I don't know what to do,” he admits, and Dwalin chuckles gently and guides him closer, both hands on his hips, until the tip of his hard cock rubs wetly against his ass.

“That is quite alright,” he says softly. “That's what you've got me for. I teach you.” He lets go of one of Thorin's hips to reach for the oil again, to slather it onto his own flesh until it is running in rivulets down across his balls and beyond, messing up the sheets, not that either of them realize it.

“Hold on to me,” Dwalin whispers, “Just hold on to me and follow me.”

And with that, he pulls Thorin down, slowly and carefully enough that Thorin can pull away at any time, can move as slowly as he wants.

The head of his cock is not thicker than his fingers, but it feels like more, but not in a bad way. Thorin groans and tilts his head down, to lick at Dwalin's mouth and kiss him while taking more and more of Dwalin into him, until Dwalin's legs are right underneath his and they can't get any closer than they are, and suddenly, Thorin realizes something.

“The Rites and Rituals,” he gasps, his muscles tightening sub-consciously around Dwalin's thick cock, and suddenly, there is another thing coming to his mind. “Wait, did you take the metal out for me?”

Dwalin chuckles, sending pulses and waves of lust and sensations through Thorin's body. “I've taken the metal out of my cock right from the beginning,” he says and uses his grip on Thorin's ass to lift him up slightly and pull him down again. “You never noticed?”

“No,” Thorin admits and brings his knees underneath himself, to lift himself up and let himself sink back down, to let Dwalin stretch him wide. “I did not.”

“Didn't want to scare you away,” Dwalin admits. “Next time, I'll put them back in.” He rises, pulls Thorin close, fucks deeper into him and holds him close while his hips move, take Thorin again and again.

“Wait,” Thorin finally gasps and clenches strong fingertips into Dwalin's shoulders, “Wait, the Rites, Dwa...” He stops mid-word when Dwalin yanks him down again and sensation swamps him and derails his train of thought.

“This is the Rites and Rituals,” Dwalin says after a moment of relative silence, interrupted by harsh pants. “This, right here.”

He slows his thrusts and lets his hands fall slack, turns his touches into gentle caresses and soft strokes of his calloused fingertips against sweat-slick, oily skin, and Thorin makes a broken, wounded sound at the back of his throat and thrusts himself against Dwalin sharply.

“Easy, easy,” Dwalin soothes, but he does nothing to slow Thorin down, just reaches down between them and takes hold of his cock, to stroke him in rhythm with their fucking, long strokes from the tip to the root and back and short, sharp moves of his fists around the sensitive tip, working Thorin like an expert musician works their instrument, and Thorin shakes apart in his arms and comes.

~~

Thorin's forearm aches, where Dwalin patiently tapped the runes of adulthood under his skin, using an ancient, elegant script Thorin wasn't even aware Dwalin knew. The pain and discomfort will be gone in a few days, he knows, just like the dull throb in his ass. Dwalin sure knows what he is doing, and he has proven it repeatedly during the past few days. 

Dain acknowledges him by rising from his seat, and Thorin stares at his cousin as he comes closer to the ancient throne of his forefathers.

The throne that has already cost him so much.

A quick glance to his left and right shows him that he is not alone. His company surrounds and protects him, weapons ready while Thorin himself is unarmed. 

Dwalin is by his side, to his left, dressed in splendid armor that shines in the lamplight. He is holding Grasper and Keeper in a white-knuckled grip, and a mixture of pride and fear shines from his eyes as he surveys the Throne Hall and the people who have come here to celebrate with him.

His people.

Dain bows his head slightly and gestures to a young Dwarrowdam, to bring the crown, and he puts it on Thorin's head himself, speaking the traditional words in ancient khuzdul. 

The members of the King's Council all need to say a few words, as well, or at least nod encouragingly a their colleagues' monologues, and Thorin takes the chance to lets his gaze wander across the Dwarves of Erebor once more.

Fíli, Kíli and Thorin Stonehelm stand to his right, with Fíli in the middle and held upright by sheer determination and his brother, and Dwalin takes his spot to the left of his throne. Next to him, Thorin wants Bilbo, but the Hobbit only shook his head and fled when Thorin told him so, to stand with the rest of the company. Bilbo's forearms are bare, but still, there is no doubt that he counts as adult. There is a delicately wrought clip clasped onto the shell of his ear, made by Thorin himself and approved of by Dain and the Council of Elders.

Dain grins and lifts his hammer. “Hail, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” he bellows, loud enough for all Dwarves of Erebor to understand. “King Under the Mountain!” He bows and gestures to a few younglings, who bring a wrapped bunde that Thorin would recognize anywhere.

“Orcrist,” he murmurs reverently and takes his sword back. He's counted among the adults of his race now, he is allowed to bear arms, and Orcrist has served him as well as Deathless, which has been lost on the quest.

Thorin looks to the right again, to his family, and then to his left, to Dwalin, before turning his attention toward the assembled Dwarves who cheer for him and celebrate the election of a new king.

They celebrate him.

Him.

He grins slightly as he leans back and relaxes into the stones' embrace. 

Finally, he is where he belongs.

He is _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably all over the place, and for that, I apologize. Particularly to silentflux, who is an awesome person to organize this bang, and my constant tardiness probably drove her up the walls - I swear, I'm not always this unreliable!


End file.
